


wrap your leather-clad hands around my heart

by dazedream



Category: CLAMP - Works, RG Veda, X/1999
Genre: Alternate Universe, CLAMPfemslash, F/F, Guns, Hitman AU, or at least it was supposed to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazedream/pseuds/dazedream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen had orchestrated the entire thing, and she had NO IDEA where she had gotten that gun.</p><p>If she remembered correctly, the only gun she’d had anything to do with in the past twenty-four hours was the one she’d decided not to take with her to this little meeting. In fact she’d outright refused it when it had been offered to her – but her somewhat-questionable accomplice had simply looked at her with those dark, unsmiling eyes, raking them up and down her body once (and not in the way Karen was accustomed to be looked at, which she very firmly told herself was not a disappointment at all) and asked her if she would reconsider. (In a voice which clearly meant she should). </p><p>“No, thank you,” she’d said firmly. “If the situation gets to the point where we need to use violence, isn’t that what you’re here for?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	wrap your leather-clad hands around my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the CLAMP Femslash Fest Day Two, for the prompt 'I orchestrated the entire thing and I had no idea where she had gotten that gun.' Tweaked a little to fit my purposes, as you can see.

Karen had orchestrated the entire thing, and she had _no idea_ where she had gotten that gun.

If she remembered correctly, the only gun she’d had anything to do with in the past twenty-four hours was the one she’d decided _not_ to take with her to this little meeting. In fact she’d outright refused it when it had been offered to her – but her somewhat-questionable accomplice had simply _looked_ at her with those dark, unsmiling eyes, raking them up and down her body once (and not in the way Karen was accustomed to be looked at, which she very firmly told herself was not a disappointment _at all_ ) and asked her if she would reconsider. (In a voice which clearly meant she _should_ ). “No, thank you,” she’d said firmly. “If the situation gets to the point where we need to use violence, isn’t that what you’re here for?”

Her companion gave her that considering look again. “If you are absolutely sure,” she said in a measured tone, which actually meant, _Didn’t you hire me to tell you what to do, and not the other way around?_

 _We do this my way_ , Karen tried to telepathically communicate. It didn’t seem to work, judging by the bland look on her accomplice’s face. Working with Souma was turning out to be an endeavour that was both ignominious and frustrating. It was also a challenge, but Karen had always rather liked those.

Like she was turning out to kind of like Souma. Well, she was attracted to the other woman, at the very least.

The _other woman_ in question was currently stashing a gun of her own away in her clothes. Karen resisted the urge to snap at her – the entire situation already had her on edge (the fact that she’d hardly slept for weeks was doing little to help) and in no circumstances were guns going to make her feel better. The police had been useless enough in this, which was why she’d gone to Souma in the first place, but being ignored and dismissed was bad enough. She didn’t need to be arrested on top of all this.

She glanced back at her kitchen table, and the gun had disappeared, thank goodness. That was one thing that had gone her way this evening, and Karen decided to take it as an omen of how the rest of the evening would go. If you couldn’t be optimistic, what _could_ you do?

She shrugged on her peacoat – fairly conspicuous in pale blue, which was probably why Souma was sending her disapproving glasses as she got ready herself, but Karen didn’t have any other warm coats so she ignored her – and her black woollen scarf that had been a Christmas present from the year Aoki had taken up knitting. She bent down to hunt for some sensible shoes (of which she owned few), oblivious to the way Souma was gazing at her ass. She eventually settled on a pair of battered but sturdy (and goddamn ugly) running shoes, but it would be dark soon, so Karen just decided to take the chance that nobody would notice. It was better to go practical, especially with Souma looking at her so disparagingly.

Souma herself was dressed from head to toe in black; black boots, black jeans ( _skintight_ , her brain helpfully reminded her. She kindly told her brain to shut the hell up), black leather jacket and black earrings, which seemed to be shaped like little crescent moons. All of which should have been cliché as fuck, with the monochrome and the leather and the stoic attitude, but this entire situation was like something out of a crappy high-aiming soap opera in which there appeared to be neither logic _or_ sanity.

And it’s not as if Karen had had any other options. At least when she poked around a little in the dark corners of a dingy bar she would never normally frequent to hire somebody to do her dirty work for her, she’d ended up with the statuesque, athletic brunette, rather than some skeevy, creeper who spent the entire conversation staring at her breasts and then left her to pick up the bill for his beers. (She didn’t think she’d mind as much if it had been Souma staring at her breasts, but she told her brain to keep far away from that train of thought. They were only spending time together in a personal capacity, after all). No, thankfully she’d got Souma, whose apollonian nature and ability to take Karen’s fumbled explanation and offer of cash for a job in stride gave her a _10/10_ first impression on Karen. That fact that she was absolutely gorgeous and that she had cute taste in earrings didn’t do anything to lessen that first impression in Karen’s book. The guns hadn’t even done much to diminish her in Karen’s eyes. Souma was doing her job, after all, and Karen was admittedly jumpy.

“I have never used a firearm in my life, and I’d probably just end up shooting you or me or both of us,” Karen pressed. “And if all goes according to plan, _which it will_ , I won’t need a gun anyways.” Souma inclined her head graciously, as if to say, _Your call_. Karen didn’t know whether to be gratified or pissed.

They left on Souma’s bike (she had a _bike_ ) and Karen spent the fifteen-minute journey to their destination (a non-descript alleyway some way away from the busier streets, where many similar confrontations had likely taken place) determinedly not thinking about where they were going at what they would do when they got there. Instead she concentrated on the warm strength of Souma’s waist under her hands. It was a very nice waist, one Karen would have liked to be holding under different circumstances, but. Professionalism, and all that.

They parked the bike a short distance from the alleyway, and Souma broke out her chains, and tied the bike securely to a telephone pole. Karen wasn’t sure that was one hundred per cent legal, but they weren’t planning on being long anyway.

They walked into the alleyway and Karen was unsurprised to find they were the first to arrive. There wasn’t much of a delay, though. The other involved soon turned up, though, and Karen wondered if he had been watching and waiting for them to arrive. It wouldn’t surprise her at this point.

“Who’s she?” the man pointed at Souma, who remained largely unaffected by the entire situation. Her shoulders were deceptively slumped, and she looked comfortable standing in her high boots in a shady alley surrounded by litter. Her features were smooth and tranquil, and the only hint that she was not entirely unperturbed was her hands, curled into fists out of sight behind her back.

Karen didn’t bother to answer him. “You know why we’re here,” she began, and opened her mouth to explain in simple terms; that he was going to leave her alone, that he was never going to contact her again, and that she and Souma were going to turn around and walk out of the alleyway and he was not going to pursue either of them.

Then it all went to shit.

 

* * *

 

Of course – of fucking  _course_ – Karen’s elaborate scheme fell through when the sleazy guy that had been sending her filthy, abusive messages for months – and she hadn’t even remembered turning him down, _honestly_ – slapped his hands on his hips, and whistled as if he were summoning a dog, and half-a-dozen beefy leather-clad men stepped out from the shadows.

 _So fucking cliché._ He had back-up. Great. In hindsight, something Karen should have accommodated for in her now pretty much ineffective plan.

And the leather didn’t even look _good_ on the burly guys ominously cracking their knuckles and flexing their enormous biceps. _Not like it did on Souma._ It just looked tacky and uncomfortable. There was no sex appeal there _at all._ The men were murmuring threats low in their throats, a growling, muted buzz that (of course) fitted perfectly with the menacing atmosphere they generated, which was probably the entire point of them being there. He had six large, muscular men; she had Souma.

She knew who she would bet on.

And then the martial-arts instructor and part-time-illegal-weapons-dealer she’d hired to help her threaten the dickwad away stepped forward with her palms raised towards the darkening sky. “We’d like to talk with you.” Her voice was steady and authoritative, and there was sudden silence in the alleyway.

“Do you recognise the woman with me?” she questioned. “You’ve been sending her intimidating phone calls, text messages, emails, and letters for several weeks. You bribed the police to ignore the case. You threatened to hurt her friend Aoki Seiichirou and his family if she continued to go to the police –”

Sleazeball laughed jeeringly. Souma took little notice, continuing in a slightly louder voice, “– or tried to gain the attention of the authorities. You have been stalking her, sir, and we are here to tell you to stop.”

“You’re pretty, lass,” he called, to the general amusement of his friends, “but no pretty girl’s gonna tell me what to do. I’m sorry, love. Perhaps if you come over here nicely, me and my friends can make it up to you.”

This was received well by the men, who laughed and leered. “Yeah, we’ll give you a real good time,” one hollered. Another shouted something vile about Souma’s beautiful full mouth, and Karen was so abruptly outraged she took a stride forward. “Stop talking,” she ordered sharply, anger and disgust a hot roiling clench in her stomach.

“What are ya gonna do, little whore?” Sleazeball mocked, and Karen vaguely heard a furious hiss behind her from Souma, but it didn’t really register.

“This,” she said, bringing up the gun she had no recollection of having anywhere near her person, and shot.

She missed, or maybe she didn’t, but Sleazeball yowled out regardless, whether from pain or fear or anger, Karen couldn’t tell.

“What the _fuck_ was that for, you stupid bitch?” he yelled. One of his friends attempted to run to him, but he was held back by another, who was staring at Karen with something akin to fear in his eyes.

That was one of the most frightening things Karen had seen all night, but as she pondered on the feeling, it became curiously liberating. She smiled at the man, shark-like, and watched as he flinched. An unfamiliar sensation bloomed in her gut, and for a moment she wondered if they’d shot back, and then cursed herself for being silly. Gunshots were hard to miss, and it didn’t _feel_ like she’d been shot in the gut anyway (not that she had particular experience in that area). It was a sharp, stretching sort of feeling that Karen was a little wary of, but she was not at all sure it was a bad thing. She felt if she could only get used to it, she could use it to her advantage, and maybe the next time something like this happened, she wouldn’t have to go looking for help in dodgy places, but could handle it for herself. Although, it would be nice to have an excuse to call Souma again, after this was over.

Sleazeball was still cursing. He kept patting himself over, as if trying to reassure himself the bullet had missed. He was swearing to himself again, words that Karen couldn’t quite catch, but she was sure they were far from complimentary. One of the men loitering at the mouth of the alleyway – she noted that there seemed to be less of them now, and the one who had looked at her as if she were something terrifying had definitely gone – stepped forward. She tensed, wondering if she should lift the gun again, but it appeared he only wanted to talk, and not with her.

“Come on, Kazuhito,” the man appealed, “let’s get out of here. Bitch isn’t worth it, yeah?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kazuhito snapped. “She shot at us!”

“You.” Karen supplied. “I shot at you. I don’t have a quarrel with any of your friends if they don’t have a quarrel with me. You, however – Kazuhito, I think – have been sending me invasive, upsetting messages for months. We came to ask you to stop.”

“What, and you think fucking _shooting_ at me is the best way to go about that?” he screeched. Fucking hell no, bitch –”

So consumed was he in his anger that he had stopped taking notice of his surroundings, providing a certain someone involved with the conflict with a perfect opportunity. Souma slunk up the alleyway, clinging to the shadows until she was within range, and did the expedient thing. She slammed her pistol into his face.

The _crunch_ as his nose crumpled under the sheer force of the blow was a wet, repulsive noise that echoed through the alleyway, which seemed far quieter and colder than it had mere moments ago. Karen found it highly satisfying in a visceral, primitive way, something cold and strong in her bones. A breeze blew through the alleyway, chilling Karen even underneath her thick knitted scarf, but also carrying the coppery scent of the man’s blood to her nose.

“Leave her the fuck alone,” Souma said cordially to him, brushing off the gun with one graceful hand. It was kind of intimidating (and totally hot). “Or we’ll come after you again. And I assure you, I don’t miss.”

Kazuhito swore again, and Souma cocked her gun.

“We’re out of here, Kazuhito,” his remaining friends called, backing away slowly from the conflict, before turning right on their heels and sprinting away.

“Takeshi, Ito, wait!” He called after them, but to no avail. “You crazy bitch,” he choked, seemingly at both of them, before turning tail and running after his friends. His footsteps resonated off the walls off the alleyway, fading then disappearing altogether.

“What the fuck just happened?” Karen asked weakly.

“We won, I believe.”

“I… yeah, I think I got that. I meant with the _fucking gun_. The gun I pulled on that Kazuhito guy, not that he didn’t deserve it, but how the fuck did that _happen_.”

“You were extremely angry,” Souma explained. “I was expecting to have to wait a little longer for your survival instincts to kick in. Something must have triggered them, and you instinctively sought for a weapon. Luckily, I had provided you with one.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“ _Did you sneak the gun into my jacket_?” Karen shrieked, her rough voice an explosion of disbelief and sheer fury. She’s suddenly exhausted, knees weakening abruptly, but she managed not to stagger and kept her shoulders squared and strong. The weight of her ire brings her right back to the here-and-now pretty quickly though, and she narrows her eyes at Souma, opening her mouth to shout at her again. She’s a little miffed that Souma gets back to explaining before she even gets a single insult out.

“The waistband of your jeans, actually. I thought you’d have noticed. The human mind is amazing at deceiving itself, sometimes.” Souma was remarkably calm. Karen wanted to slap her.

“Mostly I just wanted an excuse to get a closer look at your ass,” Souma admitted. Karen froze. “I should really learn to stop taking unpredictable jobs from the ones with pretty faces,” she continued, for the first time showing a little regret. “I think this is one of the times it’s turned out _better_ , actually…”

Karen stepped up into Souma’s space. “So you tricked me and snuck a weapon onto me?” _And you think I’m pretty?_ she added mentally, and cursed herself. Her attraction to the woman could very well work out to be problematic, seeing as they were to part ways soon. “JUST SO YOU COULD LOOK AT MY ASS.”

Souma didn’t lean back from the snarling woman standing right in front of her. Her face was wholly unrepentant, eyes back to the grimly serious default they had had before the confrontation.

“I chose to put the gun in the waistband of your jeans so I could get a closer look at your ass. It was also the most practical way to give it to you; you hadn’t put your coat on yet. I snuck a weapon onto you, as you say, so that in a worst-case scenario you would not be completely helpless. I thought it would be better to be cautious, with what you had told me about the man, I didn’t think that he would be above resorting to violence.”

And just _god_ , wasn’t that the worst part of the evening, listing to her explaining the completely crazy series of events as if they were perfectly natural and rational? At least she hadn’t said ‘I told you so’. Sometimes you had to thank God for the small mercies.

She leaned forward, swaying a little on her feet, suddenly overwhelmed with dizziness and fatigue and Souma was abruptly there, catching her gently and cradling her close in concern. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she protested, but made no attempt to reinforce that protest by pulling away. “I guess it’s over,” she exhaled into Souma’s chest, trying to resist the urge to snuggle into the other woman’s warmth and knowing that resistance wouldn’t hold out much longer. With Souma as a pillar, she was feeling much less tired, but was loath to draw away.

“Not quite,” Souma said, warmly amused, “you still have to pay me.”

“Hmmm,” Karen mused playfully. It was a monumental effort to heave herself away from the other woman (just a little, not leaving the circle of her arms) but she managed it. She wound her arms around Souma’s waist, and tipped her head back a little so she could look in the taller woman’s eyes. “I’m not sure I _should_ be paying you,” she teased, lightening her voice so Souma would know she was joking. “After all, you did force a weapon on me without my consent.”

“Do you _know_ how much less I charged you for this than I should have?” Souma demanded, tangling her long dark fingers in Karen’s tousled hair.

“Because of my _pretty face_?” Karen threw right back, grabbing those broad, strong shoulders, and shoving Souma back against the wall.

Souma’s arms dropped from her hair (Karen whined at the loss and could not bring herself to be even remotely embarrassed), twining around her waist to bring her in close so they were pressing up against each other. She dipped her head to nestle into Karen’s neck, licking the skin there experimentally. Karen gasped softly, breathy and low in her throat, fisting her hands in the shoulders of Souma’s jacket.

“Not just ‘cause you had a pretty face,” Souma continued, her voice strained and breathless. Karen took a moment to remember what they had been talking about, and could have slammed her head off the brick wall behind Souma in sheer frustration. “Your situation obviously sounded crap, and no one deserves to be stalked like that –”

“You want to talk reason _now_?” Karen demanded, wriggling closer to Souma in her impatience. She was _noticing_ things about Souma now, not that she hadn’t before, but now they were nigh-impossible to ignore or shove to the back of her mind. Things like how appealing the curve of her cheek was – Karen wanted to kiss it. And her supple-looking lips – Karen wanted to kiss those too. The fall of her hair against her neck, the sweep of her eyelashes and the shadows they cast on her cheeks, the coiled strength in every muscle of her body, especially in those hands that held Karen so close.

She wanted it all.

“Ah –” Souma gasped “– no.”

“Glad to see we finally agree about _something_ ,” Karen muttered and, steeling her nerves, leaned in to bite at Souma’s lips.

“Mmm, I think we both agreed that guy was an asshole,” Souma managed to get out once their mouths had parted. She was panting a little, her breath coming out in little puffs of mist. It was rapidly getting colder, and she leaned further into Karen (if that was at all possible) for warmth. And maybe for other reasons, as she yanked Karen’s scarf out of the way and nuzzled appreciatively into her creamy, swan-like neck. “And that –”

“Can you please stop talking, _ohmygod_ ,” Karen whined fervently, and tugged at Souma’s hair slightly viciously. Souma acquiesced willingly, leaning back in to kiss her again, a gesture Karen much appreciated.

Kissing Souma was different to kissing any of the other women she had kissed before. Souma didn’t taste much of anything but heat, and she was certainly stronger, and she had no qualms about making plain what she wanted (those strong hands travelling down her back to squeeze her ass, _oh_ ). She let herself be drawn further into the kiss, and surrendered conscious thought for the much more pressing sensations of throbbing heat and desire. She could be burned up in a kiss like this, scorched to a crisp, burned down to ashes, and then those ashes charred into nothingness.

Her last conscious thought for a good while was that she would not mind in the slightest.

 

* * *

 

It was an unspecified amount of time later that they heard the wailing of sirens in the distance, shredding the peace of the night air. The two women drew apart, unwinding their limbs from the twining muddle they had worked themselves into. They took a long few moments to recover and catch their breaths, chests heaving slightly. They moved apart a touch more, Karen brushing off her peacoat in an awkward gesture, adjusting the loop of scarf around her neck that had been disturbed by Souma’s kisses.

“It’s a miracle the cops to this long to show up, actually,” Souma voiced, her speech a little rough. “Someone should have heard the gunshot and called them earlier.”

“Brilliant,” Karen seethed, warm breath misting the air in front of her. “They’ve been completely bloody useless this whole time, and they choose _now_ to show up?”

“If I may,” Souma said, “may I suggest _we_ choose now to make our daring escape?”

“Sure,” Karen responded despondently, kicking out at a discarded can on the floor of the alley in frustration. “Which is the way back to your bike again?”

They checked they weren't leaving anything behind, and Souma offered her hand to Karen before turning and leading the way out of the alley, which softened the blow of the interruption somewhat.

A short while later she was sitting astride Souma’s bike with her arms curled around the other woman’s middle as Souma started the engine of the motorcycle as quietly as she could and started back towards Karen’s apartment. Karen’s cheeks were still flushed and her entire body felt hot, her clothes uncomfortably stifling. This time she was steadfastly ignoring the feel of Souma’s waist beneath her hands – it wouldn’t help.

“We’re here.” Souma killed the bike’s engine and kicked out the kickstand, crossing her arms over her chest as Karen dismounted the bike. She coughed a little, clearing her throat and gathered her courage. She brushed a few errant strands of her hair back behind her ear (tousled from Souma’s exploring fingers earlier oh and that wasn’t a distracting thought at all) and smiled her most inviting smile. “Do you want to come in for coffee?”

 

* * *

 

They were both exhausted, physically and mentally, from what had happened, but there was time left in the evening to do a great number of things, Karen was surprised to find out. Time for the coffee, time to talk the events of the evening over, time for her to reproach Souma for the stunt with the gun, time for Souma to point out that nothing had actually gone wrong and that things might have turned out for the worse if she had not fired.

Time to feel Souma’s muscular thighs around her waist, and their mouths pressing together once again. Time to press each other against walls again, to loose clothes like birds shed feathers and stumble to Karen’s bedroom, a distance which had never felt so long in all the time Karen had lived in her apartment. Time to feel skin-on-skin for the first time, time for the graceless undulation of their bodies moving in perfect sync, time to fall back _breathless_ against the mattress, void of the desire to do anything but cling to each other in a loose embrace. Time to sleep pressed close together, legs tangled and flame-bright and night-dark hair spilling over the same pillow.

Time in the next morning for Souma to refuse her payment, saying it would be awkward. Time for Souma to make the coffee, and Karen the toast. Time for her to offer spare clothes to the other woman as they brushed their teeth side-by-side in Karen’s tiny bathroom like they’d been doing this forever. Time to dress together in Karen’s bedroom, eyes continually drawn to the other so that it took far longer to get dressed than it ever normally should.

Time for Souma to invite her to dinner that night, and time for Karen to throw her arms and legs around the other woman and send them tumbling to the floor, time for her to accept with her entire body.

Plenty of time, in fact, for many, many things.

A lifetime, perhaps?

**Author's Note:**

> UGH corny ending is corny but what can you do
> 
> also do please excuse the title, I was at my wits' end.


End file.
